


Shadows And Fog

by kcstories



Category: Silent Hill, Twin Peaks
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst investigating a mysterious disappearance, Special Agent Dale Cooper finds himself in a strange, deserted town. (Twin Peaks/Silent Hill crossover)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows And Fog

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:**The characters and settings featured in this story belong to their original creators. The quoted lyrics are from Akira Yamaoka's "Waiting For You". This story was written for fun, not profit.  
> **A/N:** Written for the "Spook Me" Halloween 2008 Ficathon. My prompt was: "Destination Nightmare. "

_September 15, 2008 - 21:14 hrs._

  
Diane,

About half an hour ago, I arrived safely, despite a few obstacles.

A thick fog shrouds the town like a veil as we speak.

It's hard to tell whether this is a consequence of air (or possibly water) pollution or if some as yet unidentified meteorological phenomenon has descended upon us, but whatever the cause may be, the problem is definitely local. The skies were a beautiful shade of azure blue all the way here. Not a single cloud to be seen anywhere.

The views were magnificent as well. Those gigantic pine trees, Diane… Simply breathtaking!

I stopped the car for a moment and tried to take some pictures for you, but sadly discovered that my camera's battery was as dead as—no, let's not go there; that would be in extremely bad taste and as a wise man once stated, "The past is a good place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there."

So, as I was saying: no photos unfortunately. I'll try to purchase a new battery tomorrow and snap a few shots when the fog has cleared. There should be a supply store around here somewhere.

But I digress...

The mist made the final part of my journal pretty difficult. Once I got within a few miles of my destination, I could barely see the roads any longer, never mind read any of the street or traffic signs.

Fortunately, the year I spent with the Cherokee Tribe taught me a thing or two about tracking and orientation.

The hotel was deserted when I got here—actually, oddly enough, I haven't seen a living soul since I arrived—so I decided to help myself to one of the keys in the lobby and take up residence in a lavish room on the second floor.

It looks like I'll be more than comfortable during my stay. There's a king size bed with fresh, crisp sheets—Egyptian cotton, no mistaking it—and the en suite bathroom houses a shower and a large bathtub. There is piping hot water—I've already checked. Only the radio and TV don't have any reception, and the phones are out as well. I'm assuming this is due to the unusual weather and only temporary.

No matter. The mini bar is well stocked, and I noticed Brazilian coffee in the kitchen. I'll sample it tomorrow. Tempting though it is to have a taste now, I probably wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep, even though the journey left me more than a little fatigued.

I suppose I'll settle the bill with the owner later, or wire some money afterwards, when they've all come back.

You know, Diane, when I was standing in front of this building, the first thought to enter my head was that this place could easily give The Great Northern a run for its money. It's bound to be even more impressive in the bright light of day.

Through the fog, I thought I could see the shapes of some spectacular trees on the other side of that lake.

Will investigate the town in detail tomorrow morning. Visibility should have improved by then.

  
~*~

_September 16, 2008 - 11:45 hrs._

  
Diane,

My first night here, alas, was not as restful as I'd hoped.

Quite a few times—eight, to be specific—I was rudely awakened by strange, ominous sounds.

Even through the fog, they were extremely loud and uncannily clear, and they reminded me of screeching vultures circling overhead or possibly scraping metal in the nearby distance; like the noises produced by rusty vehicles or worn machinery pushed beyond its limits.

Of course, strictly relying on common sense, the _vultures_ theory holds no weight whatsoever. There are no vultures around these parts; no birds of prey at all, save for maybe the occasional owl.

Which leaves us the second option…

According to that map we were given, there's an amusement park nearby called 'Lakeside'. Yes, I'm going to assume people around here aren't terribly creative.

I've yet to check that place out, but I'm not terribly optimistic about finding anything of use there. Who in their right mind would want to ride a carousel in the middle of a dark, foggy night?

Unless we're dealing with otherworldly phenomena again. That might explain why the bureau assigned me this case. Missing persons, as you know, aren't really within my line of expertise, which isn't to say I'm not up for the challenge.

But let's not stray from the subject at hand, Diane.

After a far from refreshing sleep, I got up around 7:00 hrs, took a shower—the complimentary shampoo is most excellent, by the way. I'll have to remember to write down the brand—and headed downstairs.

None of the staff was anywhere to be seen (the hotel seemed completely empty aside from me), so I decided to cook my own sustaining breakfast before going into town to investigate.

The refrigerator and freezer turned out to be well stocked too, so I settled for croissants, jam, bacon, eggs, and some of that Brazilian coffee. Damn fine coffee, Diane!

Now if only I could figure out where everyone went.

I have been roaming the streets for hours, and have yet to bump into anyone. Some of the houses and shops are boarded up, while others look like their occupants left very recently—_fled_. Two houses I passed still had dinner on the table.

Incidentally, that thick fog from yesterday still hasn't cleared up completely and it seems to be altering my perception of sound. I keep hearing footsteps behind me, but when I turn around, no one is actually there.

Could something in this fog be causing auditory hallucinations? A chemical, perhaps, leading us back to pollution?

It might be worth it to have this checked out by our experts. Please advise on whether I should mail a sample.

And finally, before I head back to the hotel…

I found the Historical Society the old travel guide mentioned. It's partly a museum now and seems to focus mostly on folklore, with a large emphasis on cult activity in the area over the past five decades. I'll examine it at great length later, but unless this cult has somehow resurfaced (nothing I've found evidence of so far), I don't think it'll shed any light on Ms. Gillespie's sudden disappearance.

~*~

_September 16, 2008 - 13:45 hrs._

  
Diane,

Still haven't encountered a living soul. I must say, this is starting to feel sort of… eerie, even by my standards.

About an hour ago, I passed a cosy looking diner. It was as deserted as the hotel. The jukebox was playing, however; the same song, over and over again. In no time at all, the lyrics got stuck in my head. They still are.

_I'm here and waiting for you.  
Where are you? I can't find you.  
I'm here and waiting for you.  
I'll wait forever for you._

Given the circumstances, those words almost sounded like a message from another plane.

Perhaps that's exactly what they were. We always have to keep an open mind about these things; anticipate the unexpected, as it were.

Now, I must say, Diane, many of the items in the diner's fridge looked tempting—the glazed doughnuts in particular—but I decided against stopping for lunch.

Too many questions needed answers.

They still do, and something—a strange feeling in my gut—tells me we don't have that much time.

~*~

_September 16, 2008 - 22:45 hrs._

  
Diane,

After gathering some more potential evidence (I found a big stash of documents and photos in the abandoned police office), I am safely back at the hotel.

Upon my arrival, my first course of action was to take a long hot shower.

Something in that fog sticks to a person's hair and clothing, leaving behind an odd sticky residue.

This might support my theory that an otherworldly force is in action here. Perhaps this town is a gateway to a parallel universe, or the present occurrences are the work of entities associated with the spirit world. I suppose time will tell.

For dinner, I helped myself to a family-sized pizza from the freezer. Good stuff, Diane. A pleasant and most unexpected culinary treat; well spiced, juicy bell peppers on the side, plenty of sweet corn, crisp salami and not too heavy on the anchovies. So few people succeed in getting the anchovies just right, Diane.

Meanwhile, the phones are still out. The TV doesn't work either and all the radio gives me is static.

The good news is that on a random rummage through some of the other hotel rooms, I found even more interesting reading material.

Apparently, this town has been at the centre of violent crimes for decades—if not centuries—and at this point, it's hard to tell whether this is the Black Lodge all over again, or an entirely different class of deep-rooted evil.

I am beginning to suspect, however, that local cult activities have resumed, or they never ceased in the first place.

One of the documents I discovered is written in what seems to be either an ancient language or code. I'm sending it to you as soon as I can find a functioning fax machine.

~*~

_September 17, 2008 - 05:56 hrs_

  
Diane,

Once again, strange, ominous sounds roughly pulled me from my slumber.

This time, they seemed to originate from the lake.

Twenty-three minutes (and a couple of seconds) ago, I looked out the window to check what was going on, but the thick fog prevented me from seeing anything, even vague contours.

I was right about those pine trees, by the way. They're nothing less than spectacular in daylight.

Meanwhile, I have to wonder where this fog keeps coming from. I've never seen anything like it. Not even during that week in Austria, all those years ago, when Annie and I were high up in the mountains and ended up spending most of our vacation in our cabin, hiding from the mist and rain.

Anyhow….

When I stepped back from the window to return to bed and hopefully get some more much-needed sleep, out of the corner of my eye, something unusual caught my attention.

A small leather-bound book was stuck between the radiator and the wall. After wrestling it out of its small space—no mean feat, let me tell you, Diane; my wrist still hurts—I discovered it was someone's diary hidden there.

Interesting coincidence, isn't it? Once again it comes down to a diary.

I haven't read the whole thing yet. In some parts, the handwriting isn't all that legible either, which suggests to me that the person behind these words is—or was—often ill, distressed or exhausted, or possibly a combination of all three. My deduction is also backed by the repeated mentions of Brookhaven Hospital.

I read about that place in one of the brochures. It's on the outskirts of town and was originally built when a strange, mysterious and decidedly lethal epidemic swept the area.

A few decades ago, however, it was turned into a mental institution.

I wonder if that's where Ms. Gillespie is. Maybe something about this town—something in that never-lifting fog—makes some people lose their mind.

Of course that wouldn't account for the other residents, especially the locals who've lived here all their lives, which might imply a certain immunity, but I have to start somewhere.

After an early breakfast—just oatmeal with raisins today, I think, Diane—I'll be heading to Brookhaven to investigate.

  
~*~

_September 17, 2008 - 09:56 hrs_

  
I'm about halfway to the hospital, Diane, and once again caught up in that damn fog. It seems to be getting worse by the second. If I didn't know any better, I'd think it was purposely following me.

Impossible, of course, though to be honest, I can't shake the feeling that something—well, someone—is actually right behind me, hot on my heels.

However, when I turn around, no matter how swiftly or stealthily I do it, there is never anyone there.

That damn fog must be messing with my perception of sound.

And now that we're on the subject of bad tidings, I fear this tape recorder might fall to pieces soon.

Even when it's not switched on, it keeps making this strange buzzing noise. I suppose it's a good thing I was taught to be prepared for every eventuality. I also brought a pencil and notepad.

~*~

_September 17, 2008 - 12:42 hrs_

  
The longer I walk through this fog, Diane—and please forgive the whispering; my reasons for it will become clear shortly—the more I get the impression that I'm not at all alone here.

Of course it could be just a trick of the eye, the fog distorting my sense of reality and sending my creative mind to places where it ought not wander. Believe me, that's what I keep telling myself, too.

And yet…

There may be forces at work here that are beyond our human comprehension, and if so, it might have been… overly optimistic of the Bureau to send me here by myself.

This is a far cry from Twin Peaks, Diane. There isn't even any local law enforcement available that could be called upon for assistance. Officer Cybill Bennett, who (as you undoubtedly recall) filed the report that first alerted the FBI to Ms. Gillespie's disappearance and the strange circumstances surrounding it, is yet another person who seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.

I hope I will encounter Officer Bennett at the hospital. Perhaps the place has become a haven of refuge, or she is interrogating the more lucid patients as we speak.

Either way, Diane, I have a feeling her insights might be extremely helpful.

~*~

_September 17, 2008 - 15:00 hrs (roughly estimated)_

  
Diane,

I am currently standing on the lawn in front of Brookhaven Hospital.

A daunting, almost threatening aura radiates from the place, and the strangest thing—though, of course, a sceptic such as yourself might argue this is just coincidence—is that my watch stopped ticking about five minutes ago.

I bought this watch ten years ago in a specialist outlet. It's Swiss, shockproof, waterproof and it has never failed me before; not even after it went backwards for a while, in that red room with Laura Palmer and…

No, we really can't spare the time to dwell on that now.

Instead, I must mention the strange symbol painted on the wall in bright red paint. I'll assume it's paint, Diane. Its colour is too light for it to be blood.

My first guess is that it's a sigil, and that it may have played a part in some ritual to summon the force—or forces—responsible for whatever it is that is happening in this town.

If only my camera would work. All the batteries I've found so far have been dead. So instead of taking a picture, I will now, to the best of my ability, commit the image to memory

To describe it in plain and simple terms: the symbol consists of a circle within another circle. There's an eye at the top and a lot of other symbols are scattered throughout the centre, including three more circles, a few astrological signs (I recognise Libra and Aquarius and will look the others up later), a couple of runes (I can't identify them on sight, but will copy them down for later research) and finally, for some reason, pi is there as well. We have some more of that strange ancient writing again, too.

Frankly, Diane, the symbol is so elaborate that it's almost too… occult looking.

If it wasn't for all the bizarre happenings around here, the fog and isolation in particular, I'd say the drawing was someone's idea of a tasteless joke, except of course, we both know…

Hang on.

Diane, my apologies for having to lower my voice even further, but as we speak, the hospital's front door opens.

It does so without a sound, even though it looks heavy. It's made of solid wood and iron, I'd wager.

A woman appears in the doorway.

Dark hair, a slinky red dress…. She looks uncannily familiar… She's walking towards me, swaggering slightly…

She…

Wait a second. W-What the hell?

Audrey Horne?

_"Hello, Special Agent Cooper."_

  
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

  
_The tape crackles—once, twice, three times—and fades out in a dull buzz._

For a long moment, an ominous silence reigns the tiny, dimly lit room.

"That's it?" the junior FBI agent finally ventures to ask, crossing his arms in an attempt to radiate more confidence than he actually possesses. "That's all we've got?"

His superior nods. "I'm afraid so, Henderson, and your colleague who found the tape recorder is still being treated for shock. He hasn't uttered a word since we pulled him from that swamp. He seems incapable of speech, and according to the latest reports, his recovery prognosis isn't exactly optimistic."

"But what about…?" Henderson bites his lip and gives the female officer sitting in the swivel chair by the window a questioning, almost pleading look.

"Yes?" she says, frowning.

"Surely someone here must have seen… well, something. Didn't you guys send out a search party before we got here?"

She slowly shakes her head. "This is Brahms, Special Agent Henderson. History and experience have taught the people of Brahms to mind their own business."

"What happens in Silent Hill stays in Silent Hill?" he retorts, but in the face of such tragedy, his attempt at humour falls flat.

"Officer Bennett was the only exception?" the senior agent cuts in, his tone curt but professional.

The woman nods. "Yes, and look how that turned out. Poor Cybill. I warned her lots of times, but she always was too headstrong for her own good."

She sighs deeply and directs her gaze outside.

In the distance, on the other side of the barbed wire fence, she can see the fog starting to rise.


End file.
